The Hill Street Blues
by Meredith T. Tasaki
Summary: [Complete] When Tony is kidnapped, Gibbs learns he has secrets he never even imagined. But why does Fornell seem so unsurprised? [Life's what you make of the time you spend breathing, and even if you can't get anything back...]
1. five conversations

The Hill Street Blues

Rating: "T" (PG-13)

Disclaimer: I hold no rights whatsoever to any of the characters or premises of NCIS.

Summary: prologue Gibbs is about to find out he's not the only one on his team with secrets in his past. "Once upon a time he knew a man he'd follow anywhere. Who stood up for justice, mercy, the people he was in charge of. The community itself, no matter how many times it tried to kill him. No matter if it finally succeeded."

Notes: Joe Spano, the actor who plays Agent Fornell on NCIS, was once in a television series called "Hill Street Blues". It was really a very good series; I caught it in reruns and became utterly addicted. It had a way of blending action and tragedy and slapstick humor not just into a single episode, but often into a single scene. It was the prototypical low-rated critical darling. It also introduced a few elements into televison that are still occasionally seen today, like continuity, ensemble drama, realism, multi-episode story arcs, character development, and excellent writing. You may have heard of the guy who created it, his name's Steven Bochco, I think he had some other cop series people thought was pretty good.

Seasons one and two are finally out on DVD. Season three won't be.

So, since you're the kind of people who read fanfiction, I think you can understand why I'm doing this. Please, give me a chance; it's a pretty good story, written fairly well, and I swear if _anything_ confuses you, I will make sure to explain it in the next author's note (unless it happens to be a spoiler). To the best of my knowledge, this is the closest thing to a Hill Street Blues fic on the internet. It feels like I'm a fandom of one, so please; I know it's a crossover, but give it a shot. Thank you.

(-)

Prologue: Five Conversations

(-)

Gibbs' team has a table to themselves, which doesn't surprise Fornell one bit. They all look morose, in their subtly different ways. David, of course, has a look of betrayal well-tempered with anger-- she's probably the one saying, "So he left! He wants to leave, he can leave! Why are you people all so damn depressed? It's time to get on with our lives!"

McGee's still naive enough to look more hurt and confused-- well, maybe not naive; maybe just more uncomplicated. Time'll change that soon enough. He's probably not talking; he's probably just staring at his bottle of beer (half-empty, his first) and wondering what the hell's happened. He can remember being like that. He can remember being that young.

Abby, poor girl, looks utterly devastated-- she always was strangely attached to the old man. She's a loyal one, eccentric but utterly devoted to any cause she takes up-- oh yes, he remembers the type. She's probably been alternating between passionate denial and despair all evening-- all day-- "How could he have left us like that?! He'll be back, won't he? He's got to be back." At the moment, she looks to be in more of a "I think I'll transfer to narcotics... better pay... it's at night, and I've always liked the dark... better chance of dying..." mood. He remembers the type. He wonders briefly if Gibbs is really worthy of that devotion.

Dr. Mallard is there too-- somewhat surprising, given that this isn't really his sort of establishment-- he's trying to cheer them up, distract them, probably going off on all sorts of tangents. Probably very interesting to listen in on, and utterly useless, but he'll give it the old college try because that's who he is; he means harm to no one. Well, he might be dangerous if you put him in a room with a murderer or something. You didn't want to mess with an angry doctor.

And DiNozzo... mainly just looks sad. And bitter, and hurt, and betrayed, but all that is on the periphery. Mainly he looks _sad_...

And he's seen that look before. He knew it well. He never thought-- well. After all, the kid is reckless, shameless... Ridiculous flirt... Dedicated... Had to be dedicated, to have chosen the path he did...Had to actually be serious, beneath all that...

Yeah. He acts more like his mother, but he has his father's eyes.

Is there anything he can really add to that? After all, it's not a group he really belongs in.

(there's no group he really belongs in anymore)

What could he tell them besides "It'll be all right, don't worry, if he doesn't come back he wasn't worth fretting over in the first place"? Because frankly, he _doesn't_ think that highly of Gibbs' management style. Oh, it gets the job done, and the people who've survived it don't seem to mind, and he _means_ well, it's just... a bit abusive, and it's going to come back to bite him on the ass someday. The way to command devotion is to show that devotion's returned, and Jethro just doesn't do that very much. Not that he _wouldn't_ walk through hell and high water for his team... maybe... See, even he doubts it. How are these people going to feel?

Truth is, he's just spoiled. Once upon a time he knew a man he'd follow anywhere. Who stood up for justice, mercy, the people he was in charge of. The community itself, no matter how many times it tried to kill him. No matter if it finally succeeded.

The truth is, he's just spoiled.

And given what it's bringing out in DiNozzo, he thinks maybe it'd be better if Gibbs stayed in his little tropical cocoon.

Which wouldn't be a popular sentiment tonight-- so he pays for his drink and turns away.

(some days you wake up and you wonder where you are and how you've gotten here and who you are because you've changed so much from the memories of your past)

(-)

Abby sighs and glances around the lab. Slow day; doesn't look like anyone's about to come in; so she picks up her cell and dials his number by heart.

Two dial tones, then a familiar growl. "Schuto."

"Hey."

His tone instantly softens-- she's always loved the way he goes from "What the hell do you want?!" to "Hey, sweetie!" in less than half a second. So much love in his heart. "Hey, kid. How's it goin'?"

"Pretty good, just booooring."

"Slow day, huh? Know the feeling."

"Yeah, that's the only thing I don't like about working here-- nowhere near enough cases!"

"Yep. Waiting's always the hard part."

"Are you busy?"

"Nah, just writing up a report."

She supresses a grin. "Yeah, I could tell." All these years and she's never, _ever_ been able to teach him to type. "They have these videos, you know, that teach you where all the letters are."

"Maybe it's slow, but it _works_, okay?" Another peck. He is the _epitome_ of hunt-and-peck, there should be a video of him next to the entry on Wikipedia. He hunts around the keyboard, literally twitching his head back and forth until he finds it, then jabs primly at the key with one finger and looks for the next one. How he's survived the information age, she doesn't know.

Then again, he does know how to work a cell phone. And if you gave him a PDA (which no one's been stupid enough to do, thank god), he probably wouldn't destroy it nearly so many times as Gibbs has.

"What's your next case looking like?"

"Ah, small potatoes. Fencing ring."

"You're not going undercover again, are you?"

"Eh..."

"You know you're getting too old for that! Someday you're going to get yourself killed and _then_ where will I be?"

"I will _not_ get myself killed. You know that! I never have before, have I?"

"Yeah, but stastically, some day your luck's gotta run out."

"Bah. Statistics. There's a reason I never went into math, you know."

"It's like a natural law of the universe, Dad."

"Not what I've seen of it. Seriously, Abs, it's a cakewalk. I don't even have to dress up. Okay?"

"If you'e sure. I mean, it's not like I can stop you or anything."

"Aw, c'mon, honey..."

"Okay." She smiles.

The phone chooses that moment to ring. "Oh, looks like something's gonna happen finally! Gotta go!"

"Okay, sweetie. See you soon."

"Bye!"

(-)

"Everyone seems to be mad at me," says Gibbs, and Fornell ostentatiously stifles his laughter. "Oh, come _on_."

"No, really," Fornell said, "why would they possibly be _angry_? Just because you left for, what, a few months--"

"Weeks."

"Months, without leaving your address, left them _just_ long enough to learn to live without you, came back _just_ long enough to get their hopes up, left again, then came back with the Moustache from Hell?"

"What the hell's wrong with my moustache?"

"I'd tell you, but I'm supposed to be back at the office in an hour, so--"

"Real cute, Fornell."

"Seriously, the fact that DiNotzo hasn't killed you? Proves you are capable of inspiring loyalty in a way I simply cannot comprehend."

"You don't understand loyalty?"

"No, I just don't understand how it can survive solely on swats to the head."

"You know I'd do anything for them."

"If it didn't involve showing that you'd do anything for them, yes."

"You're angry at me, too, aren't you."

"Why the hell would _I_ be mad at you? You didn't abandon _me_. I never depended on your approval."

"Neither did Ducky, and he still seems pretty pissed."

"Yeah, well, you've been friends longer, and you probably know pretty much _his_ whole life story, given the way that man talks. Seriously. Admit to me right now that having had a wife and a kid is not a salient biographic detail."

"It never came up."

"Riiiight. See, that's why he's pissed at you."

"What the hell was I supposed to say?! 'Oh, by the way, I had a wife and kid and they're dead now'? It's _not_ the sort of thing that just comes up!"

"Yeah it does. If you let it. And you just wouldn't let it. Which is okay; I understand it. But Dr. Mallard tells you everything. I can see how he might get the impression you should return the favor."

"I can't."

"Yeah, I know."

"Is that why you aren't mad at me?"

Fornell grins. "No, I'm not mad at you because this just makes us even."

"Oh, really? In what way?"

"I'm in the Witness Protection Program and I've got three other kids. I used to be a hostage negotiator until I was forced underground in a massive government conspiracy to save face and cover ass. So now I don't have to feel at all guilty about not telling you that."

"Is that so." A slow smile comes onto Gibbs' face.

"Yep."

Gibbs cracks up, and Fornell remembers why DiNozzo hasn't killed him yet. He's got his blind spots, but he's a damn good agent.

Still, in the leadership area, he's got some stuff to learn.

And he probably will-- the hard way.

"Ah, that was a good one." Gibbs claps him on the shoulder as the elevator doors open. "See you around, Fornell."

"It's Goldbloom," Fornell calls as the doors close.

They'd kill him for actually admitting that, but it's good to finally say it out loud-- and besides, Gibbs will never believe it anyway, _especially_ now.

Sometimes, the best hiding place _is_ in plain sight.

(-)

"Let me try," Tony says quietly, after his boss storms out of the office.

"Ah, it's no use. That stubborn old ice queen isn't gonna sign a thing unless she's absolutely sure her ass is safe."

"Yeah, but it can't _hurt_, can it?"

Gibbs stares at him. "You're not gonna try and _charm_ her, are you? Because she'll probably bite off your head."

"Hey, I'm good with the ladies!"

"This lady's old enough to be your mother."

"So I'll appeal to her maternal side."

"She hasn't got one."

"Let me try, Boss. We need this warrant."

Gibbs considers this-- it's true, damn it-- and sighs. "She'll just hurt you."

"One way to find out." He walks into the office and shuts the door behind him.

The attorney is so much older than he remembered-- hair streaked with grey-- she looks so tired-- but she still has that regal air about her, that dancer's grace.

"Agent Gibbs," she sighs, pushing her hair back behind her ear, "if you want me to push for your damn warrant, you'll have to actually bring me some..."

Then she sees him, and she just-- stops. No surprise registers on her face, no shock; she just _stops_.

"This guy did it," he says, "and we know it. I know the evidence is circumstantial. I know it's iffy, but it's _enough_, and we _will_ find more in this guy's house. Please, just give us the chance."

She stares at him. "... And why do you think I'll listen to you if I didn't listen to your boss?"

"Ah. Two parts to that answer. I think you'll _do_ it because you know it's the right thing. I think you'll _listen_ because... I mean, I think you sat still long enough to hear me out because..."

"...You _promise_ me this thing is solid."

"Yes. It is."

"And you're not just playing on our..."

"I'm trying not to."

"Yeah. I know." She smiles faintly. "I'll... I'll do it. Just-- don't be wrong."

"Yes, ma'am." He turns to leave.

"And-- stay in touch, a little, would you?"

He looks back at her; she looks wistful, and scarred, and pained, but she still has a smile for him. It had barely even occured to him to miss her, but he realizes he does.

"Yeah. I will." He smiles back.

(that night in the huge soft bed, rocking back and forth, whispering "Tony-Tony-Tony" through his sobs, because otherwise he'd forget, and what would they do to him if he forgot? What would they do if he didn't forget...? If he didn't become this new person they'd told him to be...)

"You get it?" Gibbs asks, like he's expecting the answer to be no.

"Yep." He holds up the proof, pushing a smug smile onto his face.

"You're kidding me."

"She's calling right now."

"How the hell did you do _that_?"

He smiles, though he doesn't feel much like smiling. "Ah, magicians never reveal their secrets."

(and the worst part of it was, he succeeded. the worst part was all those days when he went to bed and looked up at the ceiling in the dark and realized, I didn't think of them today. the worst part was all those days he didn't even think that.)

(-)

"What was that?" Ziva asks, mildly curious, because that did not sound like a happy phone conversation. It wasn't even loud, like a fight with an ex-lover or friend might be; it was quiet, and deathly calm, and stuffed to the rim with resentment. Tony didn't do that often. He was the flashy, emotional type. If he was feeling something, god help you, you knew it.

"Ah. My brother." His lips curl when he says the word. Interesting.

"I didn't know you had a brother," she proceeds.

"Yeah, well, in a lot of ways, I don't. He's just my brother if you're dumb enough to believe the birth certificates."

It takes her almost a second to untangle that one. Verily English is the language of asylums. "Ah. So you don't like each other."

He laughs. "Nope."

"I can see that," she says, and nods. "A Prodigal-Son thing, yes? You leave, and he stays, and he feels you get more attention than you deserve."

He laughs again. "Maybe. Not really, though."

"Then what is it?"

"...On his side, weirdly enough, that _is_ what it is. He thinks they pay attention to me. He thinks they worry about me too much. He thinks they send me too much money-- apparently he thinks they should be stealing it from me or something, 'cause I keep telling him, they don't pay me a _dime_. He should know that. He knows he's the one they care about. He knows damn well. But whatever he's missing in his life, he thinks I have. He thinks I stole it somehow. But like I just told him: if there's anything he's missing, he lost it himself."

That takes her several seconds to sort through, because she wasn't expecting anything _nearly_ so insightful. "You've been thinking about that for a long time, eh?"

"It's been happening for a long time."

Well, of course. But she didn't expect such a good answer. So this man _does_ have some hidden depths; she's suspected it, but so many times he's done his damndest to prove her wrong.

Still; she's suspected, and now she knows it. There is something serious behind that goofy smile and ridiculous talk of movies; not only that, but something big lies behind that talk of prodigal sons, she knows it. She doesn't know how she knows it, not yet; that part always takes more time. But it will turn out to be true.

"Does it show any signs that it will stop?"

"Nope. The second he saw me, he thought I was stealing from him. I doubt it'll change."

Which leads to the intriguing question: how does he know what his brother was thinking when he first saw him? The obvious answer is he's guessing, extrapolating.

She thinks it's something less obvious. She couldn't tell you why. But she has perfect faith it'll turn out to be true.

"Nearsighted of him," she comments.

"_Short_sighted."

"_Short_-sighted? That's a word? I thought it was near-sighted!"

"Only when you're talking about someone actually being nearsighted. When they're just being stupid, it's shortsighted."

Language created in an asylum, which should be declared the official language of asylums everywhere. "Why the hell is _that_?"

"I don't know. It just is."

"You're all insane, that's why."

"Oh, _we're_ insane."

"What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?!"

She's got him pinned and he knows it, but then Gibbs walks in and the conversation immediately ends as they hurry to get everything they've finished into order.

(-)

Somewhere, a young man is standing in the middle of the ruined street, remembering what his mother told him. Burned, scavenged ruins everywhere the eye can see-- left here; why? As a warning, to all the people who might talk? Sheer carelessness? Or simply because they _could_-- because no one would think anything of it?

("the kind of place that falls off maps," is how Goldbloom described it once-- but that man is dead, he's Fornell now)

The flames that had consumed this place. He remembers those flames.

He remembers why this happened. He remembers who's to blame.

He's run from this past as fast as he can, to sports, to school, to drugs, to anything he could find.

But he's not running anymore.

By the blood in his veins if need be, the truth is going to come out.

(-)


	2. who might not be dead after all

The Hill Street Blues

Rating: PG-13/T

Disclaimer: I hold no rights whatsoever to the characters or premises of NCIS. Or those of Hill Street Blues, though somehow I doubt anyone cares. (sigh) It'd almost be a relief to know that someone in the production companies still gave a damn about the show, except for, you know, the part where I'd be getting my ass sued off...

Summary: (Part 1) Gibbs doesn't know what's worse: his agent being kidnapped, by losers in the lunatic fringe, or the fact that Fornell somehow knew about it before he did. "Have you ever even asked? Or do you think you're the only one with secrets?"

Notes: Look up "Hill Street Blues" on Google and you won't find that much more (sigh). Incidentally, the show went to great lengths never to specify the city it was set in; but I had to have something, and most of the exteriors were shot in Chicago, so what the hell. Please note that I do not mean to imply that Chicago would actually tolerate... how to put this without spoilers... any of the ridiculous atrocities committed in this story. I'm fully aware that this premise bears only a tangential relation to reality.

Spoiler warning: Some for the most recent season of NCIS (which evidently I might not have been watching quite so closely as I could have been), but none whatsoever for the season finale.

(-)

1: who might not be dead after all

(-)

"You do realize that they aren't actually lesbians, right?"

Tony jumped; he shouldn't be surprised she was there, and it was only an admission of guilt, but he couldn't help it. "What, t.A.T.u? I only listen to them for the music, honest."

"And the lesbian overtones have nothing to do with it, hmm?"

"Nothing whatsover."

She shrugged. "Well, it's better than the Sinatra."

"Sinatra is _classic_!"

"Mm-hmm." She hugged him, dropped a kiss on his forehead. "I have to get to work."

"Not until you apologize to Frank Sinatra."

"I'm pretty sure he's dead, honey."

"That's not the point!"

She just laughed and walked out the door.

Which meant it was up to him to lock up. He closed her laptop, grabbed a granola bar, holding it in his teeth while he put on his jacket, and headed out the door. A bit early, yes, but better early than faced with the problem of how to get Gibbs' foot out of your ass.

He was still humming "Not Gonna Get Us" when the man on the corner began to seem familiar. He looked more closely at his face; no, he'd never met this man, but...

He was just noticing the men coming up behind him when he remembered the kid who had been sitting beside him in the van on that day-- two hours before anyone checked up on them, before anyone else started coming. Did this guy maybe look a little like him?

Three of them coming up behind him, now, and a van parked at the curb. Not a busy street, this one. That was stupid of him.

A question in the guy's eyes. Yeah, it was probably the same kid.

Then they were on him.

(-)

Fornell's doctor had told him to cut down on coffee, he remembered, as he took another sip. All seemed silly to him. You did what you had to to make it through the day, and if that killed you a few years earlier, it was better than dying this afternoon because you were too sleepy to think straight. Well, all right, that probably wouldn't actually happen, but it was the principle of the thing.

His cell phone rang; he fished it out. "Fornell."

"Hello, Henry."

His back stiffened. Well, it was always a little stiff these days, so maybe that wasn't the best phrase to use. "Joyce?"

"Yes."

"I heard they put you in the U.S. Attorney's office or something."

"Somewhere in the DOJ, yes; apparently they're lazy. Very uncreative of them, putting so many of us in the same place. But it's probably unwise to talk openly on this line."

"Why are you calling me?"

"I called out for pizza this morning."

Fornell sighed to himself. "Odd time to order pizza. Very subtle."

"Oh, shut up. Thing is, the pizza boy's three hours late. I have no idea where he could possibly be."

It didn't take him as long to figure out what she meant as he'd have thought it would. How the past came flowing back to you, at these times. "Did you call his manager?"

"No-- I don't really know him. And he probably hates me anyway. But since you're over on that side of town..."

"Don't you think you should just let it go and call for a refund?"

"I don't think he'd just wander off without calling anyone. Besides, have you seen the news lately?"

"What news?"

"Some group of protesters, stirring up the past. Look it up. There's this thing called the internet."

"I know how to use the internet, Joyce."

"Then I suggest you put your knowledge to good use. I think something's coming, Henry. Something big."

Joyce had never been the flaky type before... though he wouldn't blame her for having started. And it was possible she was oversensitive when it came to... this boy... but he should at least look it up. "I don't know if the kid's manager would appreciate me coming in and bothering him about that, but I'll think about it."

"Look up that thing I was telling you about. I think you'll change your mind."

"All right." He paused. How many years had it been? "Goodbye, Joyce."

"Bye, Henry."

He hung up and brought up whatever search engine his computer had set as default. After a moment's hesitation, he typed "Hill Street", and clicked search.

A few streets, one band, two pages on the "Hill Street Incident" (one personal, one Wikipedia), and an article in the Local section of the Chicago Sun-Times.

He squinted at the screen. Apparently some punks were spray-painting "Hill Street Project: The Truth Will Be Heard" around the city. Most people thought it was a weird ad campaign for some movie.

Except a few who remembered that the city had had a Hill Street Precinct, once.

And a very few who remembered what the Hill Street Project had been. All silenced by now.

He grabbed his coat and headed out the door.

(-)

Which left, of course, the question of how the hell he was gonna deal with Agent Gibbs. "Oh, hi there. I just noticed DiNozzo didn't show up today. Don't you think you should start snooping around?"

Well, some things were more important than humiliation.

He got off the elevator, hands in his coat pockets, trying to look nonchalant. Tony's desk was empty.

"Fornell?" Gibbs asked. "What are _you_ doing here?"

He shrugged. "Paperwork. Where's Agent DiNozzo?"

McGee and David winced. Which confirmed Joyce's story, at least.

"I don't know. Apparently he decided he could just take off work without calling in."

Fornell raised an eyebrow, trying to look as casual as he could. "Huh. I didn't know your agents could take off even _if_ they called in."

"Funny, Fornell. When he comes in, I am going to _kill_ him."

"Yeah." He pretended to walk away for a moment. "You know, that doesn't seem like DiNozzo, does it?"

Gibbs glared at him.

"I mean, he knows you're gonna kill him for this. Don't you think maybe you should check up on him or something?"

"I'm not his mother, Fornell."

_I was aware of that._ "No, but you are his boss. Look, it's none of my business, but has he ever done this before?"

"Yes."

"How many times?"

"...Once."

"When?"

"...Look, he's got a new girlfriend. He's probably playing hooky. And you're right about one thing: it isn't any of your business."

His glare brooked no opposition, so Fornell sighed and walked away. Evidently he'd have to go check up on him himself. Wouldn't be too hard to find his address, but it was such a damn waste of time...

Some girl he didn't know barreled past him from the stairwell, a look of panic on her face. He figured he should probably follow her.

"Agent Gibbs!" she panted. "There was-- a call, down at the front desk-- you have to hear this."

She plugged something into their television. Fornell was able to come up behind them unnoticed as the sound file came up.

"Agent Gibbs," came the voice, distorted, probably by one of those cheap gadgets you could get at any spy shop-- probably even Wal-Mart by now. "You may have noticed by now that Agent DiNozzo is missing. We have him. And we will not let him go until the truth about the Hill Street Project comes out. You have twenty-four hours."

A click. _Twenty-four hours until what?_ Probably not what Gibbs and the others were expecting.

There was a moment's silence.

"_McGee!_" Gibbs barked.

"On it boss!" McGee yelped, jumping behind his computer. Looking up the Hill Street Project, he had no doubt.

"_Ziva_!"

"I'm on my way," she said quickly; and indeed, she was already putting on her coat. You learned to jump _fast_ around here.

"I'm taking this up to Abby," Gibbs said, grabbing the memory stick (or whatever the hell the thing was) and heading for the elevator. "And _you_-- you're coming with me."

The look in Gibbs' eyes was the one that probably struck terror in everyone else; was certainly meant to strike terror into him. But that was one of the reasons they became friends in the first place: Gibbs could never scare him, not without shoving him up against the wall and putting a knife to his throat-- maybe not even then. He hadn't been a soldier, but he'd seen things. Nowhere near as gory, but in a few ways, worse.

Maybe not worse; that was a stupid thing to think. There was no measuring pain. All there was was the simple fact: he saw Gibbs' stare, and he was equal to it.

"What the hell are you _really_ doing here, Fornell?" Gibbs asked as soon as the doors closed.

"Checking up on DiNozzo," he answered.

"Why the hell would you do that?"

"I have my sources. I heard he didn't come in to work today. Unlike some people, I read my memos." All true. All woefully incomplete, and Gibbs was no idiot.

But he was distracted; the elevator opened, and he was off again, hurrying to Abby's lab. Singlemindedness would get him in trouble someday.

"Abby!"

"Hey, Gibbs!" the girl said cheerfully, immediately turning around. That was one hell of a father complex. "I'm almost done with that--"

"Save it, Abby. I need you to tell me everything you can about this."

Abby blinked. "Uh, sure," she said, and took it. "The flash drive, or what's on it?"

"What's on it."

"What _is_ on it?"

"Someone called us. They say they have Tony."

Abby gasped. "I _told_ you he wouldn't skip work without calling!"

Fornell couldn't stop a grin from sliding across his face, but it was gone quickly.

"Is he all right?" Abby continued. "What are they gonna do to him?"

An excellent question. "They didn't say," Gibbs answered. "We don't even know for sure this isn't a bluff yet. I sent Ziva to check out his apartment."

"What about his girlfriend's apartment?"

"Get me the address, and I'll send her there next."

"On it." She turned, and paused, and turned back. "What's Agent Fornell doing here?"

"Good question." Gibbs turned toward him. "I believe he was about to explain that."

"I heard he was missing. I came to make sure he was all right."

"How did you hear he was missing?"

"I'm not revealing my sources, Jethro."

"You are now. Your source may have kidnapped my agent."

Fornell shook his head, a slight smile on his face. "Then why would she have called me? Yes, she."

"I don't know. That's why I'm gonna ask her."

"I don't think you want to waste her time. She'll hurt you."

"Oh really?"

"Yes, really. She's in the _government_, Jethro. I've known her for years. Stop wasting your time."

"I'm texting Ziva the girlfriend's address," said Abby.

Gibbs glared at her for a second, sighed, and turned back to Fornell. "Then what _do_ you think happened?"

"Boss!" McGee hurried in. "I looked up the Hill Street Project, and--"

"Well?!"

"Can I borrow--?"

Abby nodded and quickly moved aside. McGee commandeered the computer. "I couldn't find anything in the official files, anywhere in the system, so I looked it up on the internet, and I found this."

Fornell looked unobtrusively over Gibbs' shoulders and noted McGee had chosen the personal webpage. Maybe Gibbs didn't like Wikipedia. It wouldn't surprise him.

"Apparently, this Hill Street Project is something they think happened in Chicago," explained McGee.

"'They'?"

"Not very many people, there are only a couple of references to it anywhere. Not generally accepted. The premise is-- well, basically the government razed the poorest section of town. Classic conspiracy theory. No proof whatsoever."

"Why the hell do they think _we_ know anything about it?"

McGee shrugged helplessly. "I don't know, boss. There is no information on this anywhere. But I did find this." He pulled up the online version of the article.

"Graffiti?" Gibbs squinted at the page.

"Apparently there's a group of people out there who think this is real."

"And they kidnapped an NCIS agent to prove it? Where the hell do they think _that_ will get them?"

McGee shrugged again; this was not the right answer, and not the time to give Gibbs the wrong one. "I don't know."

Gibbs turned to Fornell. "And you still haven't answered my question."

"I'd check the airports," he said. "Flights to Chicago."

"Why the hell would they go to Chicago?"

"Because that's where it happened."

"Yes. I noticed. My memory hasn't gone so bad I don't remember what someone told me _five seconds ago_. Why would they go to where it happened?"

It was Fornell's turn to shrug, because he wasn't about to just let drop a secret he'd kept for decades at the drop of a hat. "To show him? Get media attention? If the ruins are still there, it'd make a hell of a press conference. They're after publicity, Jethro, one way or another."

Gibbs shook his head. "Abby... look through the airport security footage, would you? Just in case this lunatic is right."

Fornell considered protesting he wasn't a lunatic, but he wasn't sure he could make that strong of a case anymore. "Thank you."

"There's one thing I still don't get. Why are you here? Why do you care? _How did you know about this before I did?_ And don't pretend you didn't."

This was not the right answer, and not a good time to give Gibbs a wrong one (not that there was such a thing as a good time to tell Jethro something he didn't want to hear), but Fornell couldn't think of anything better to say. "I'm not revealing my sources."

"Why do you have sources telling you things about _my agent_?" Gibbs demanded, and Fornell (or maybe Henry Goldbloom, who might not be dead after all) couldn't just sit there and take that.

"Because at some point in his life, he may have been other things than just _your agent_," he snapped. "And there may be someone besides you who gives a damn what happens to him. Someone besides you who _has a right to know_. You may not know the first thing about him. Have you ever even asked? Or do you think _you're_ the only one with secrets?"

Fornell closed his mouth; he could've gone on like that for hours, but it was stupid, not to mention pointless. "But clearly you've bought the exclusive rights to him, so I'll see myself out."

"_Fornell_!"

He ignored him; walked out of the lab, past the elevator, straight to the stairs, straight down. Jethro wouldn't listen to him, not yet, not until he saw it for himself. He didn't blame him; it was pretty damn farfetched, even after that thing with that ship or whatever the hell it was that Gibbs went to Mexico and grew a crappy mustache over. And Jethro had his blind spots.

But he had to be able to get past them. They wouldn't follow him so ardently if he couldn't.

It didn't matter. They'd find out soon enough.

When he walked out of the building, she was there-- leaning against a black car, two plane tickets in her hand.

He grinned and got in the passenger side.

(-)


	3. this lunatic wreck of a city

The Hill Street Blues

Rating: PG-13/T

Disclaimer: I hold no rights whatsoever to the characters or premises of NCIS. Or those of Hill Street Blues, though somehow I doubt anyone cares. (sigh) It'd almost be a relief to know that someone in the production companies still gave a damn about the show, except for, you know, the part where I'd be getting my ass sued off...

Summary: (Part 2) Welcome to the Hill. "Gibbs stopped in front of the barricade, and they all stepped out of the car, staring at the wooden barrier. What was strangest about it, Gibbs noticed, were the concrete pillars on each side of it-- as if a fence or gate had been meant to be here. In the middle of a street."

Notes: Exposition time! Or, well, not all of it, but a great deal.

(-)

2: this lunatic wreck of a city

(-)

"He's not in either one of these apartments," said Ziva. "That's all I can tell you."

"Well, keep looking!" Gibbs hung up and looked to Abby. "Anything on the surveillance tape yet?"

"Not yet," said McGee.

"I found something," said Abby, sounding odd. "I was running down his credit cards, just in case, and I found this charge."

"For what?"

"A ticket to Chicago."

Damn it, Fornell had been right. That jackass knew a hell of a lot more than he was saying. And that little rant he'd gone on, "there may be someone else who gives a damn about him"-- like he had a _connection_ to Tony. How the hell could he have a connection to Tony?

Then again, maybe it wasn't so farfetched. His habit of calling him "DiNo'tzo"-- maybe that did mean something. "The fact that DiNotzo hasn't strangled you? Proves you are capable of inspiring loyalty in ways I will never understand."

There was something there, all right. But what the hell could it possibly be?

"Get us a flight to Chicago," Gibbs ordered, starting to walk away.

"Gibbs--!"

He turned. "What is it?"

Abby hesitated. "How do you get a kidnapped person on a plane?"

"I don't _know_, Abbs. Why don't you look into that?"

"Okay." Abby turned back to her computer, still looking vaguely troubled.

"McGee? You coming?"

"Oh!" McGee stopped what he was doing and hurried after him.

Gibbs got out his cell phone and called Ziva back. "You find anything?"

"No. It's impossible. I don't know when he was, where he was-- it's a needle in a haystack."

"Right. I'm calling you off. Meet us at the airport."

"The airport?"

"Tony's credit card was used to buy a ticket to Chicago. Which is also where that 'Hill Street Project' is supposed to have happened."

"Right. I'll meet you there."

Gibbs hung up and grabbed his jacket from the chair. "Come on, McGee."

"Shouldn't we, pack or something?"

"No time. Besides, these people are amateurs. We're not gonna be there long."

McGee knew better than to question further; certainly not today. He threw everything useful at his desk into a bag and followed Gibbs out the door.

(-)

"You got anything?" Gibbs asked, as they made their way toward the abandoned section of town. McGee had some sort of map off the internet or something, and was giving him directions-- though Gibbs really wished he'd say them a little lower; it was hard to figure out what he was saying when he squeaked like that.

"I checked out the airport security footage," said Abby, sounding oddly subdued. Something that sounded suspiciously like Japanese techno was playing in the background, instead of her usual metal.

"And?"

"I figured out how they got him on the airplane."

"How?"

"He walked right on."

Gibbs paused to digest that as he turned off the freeway. "Any sign of how they were threatening him?"

"No. Not at all. He even bought the ticket himself. He doesn't look like he's being coerced, Gibbs. Be careful out there. I think this goes deep."

He'd already come to that conclusion. "Thanks, Abs," he said, and hung up.

"Uh, Boss, it's a right here."

"Right." He turned at the street McGee indicated. He thought McGee might have muttered something about traffic ordinances requiring a full stop at a stop sign, but he didn't much care.

"And it should be right in..."

McGee trailed off, and Ziva leaned in from the backseat, as the rest of his sentence became unnecessary. There was a barricade in the middle of the street with a rather official-looking sign reading "Condemned" somewhere under all the graffiti. Not to mention the most recent-looking graffiti: "The Hill Street Project" in big dark letters, suitably ominous.

Gibbs stopped in front of the barricade, and they all stepped out of the car, staring at the wooden barrier. What was strangest about it, Gibbs noticed, were the concrete pillars on each side of it-- as if a fence or gate had been meant to be here. In the middle of a street.

"Is anyone else reminded of the Berlin Wall, or is that just me?" asked Ziva.

"It's not just you," said McGee. "Why would they build a wall in the middle of an... alley?"

Gibbs shrugged. "Let's look inside." He climbed onto the hood of the car, and from there levered himself over the wall with relative ease. He dusted himself off and surveyed the surrounding area.

The only word for it was "ruins". Blackened ruins. Walls that had collapsed into piles of stone. Windows that were broken; beer bottles littering the streets. Broken television sets, early 90's models. An abandoned sofa, weatherbeaten and mildewed.

It looked like some city that had been abandoned after World War II, broken by riots and shells, abandoned for years to weather and rats (and a few vicious-looking stray cats, he noticed). Except for the remains of storefronts and plastic signs, of VCRs and beer bottles and the occasional sofa.

"What the hell happened here?" McGee whispered behind him, in stunned awe.

Gibbs shook his head, very, very slightly shocked himself. "Looks like those 'Hill Street Project' lunatics might be talking about something real."

Or slightly real. There was no such thing as a large-scale government conspiracy.

_Oh, really? You didn't think so a few months ago. Isn't that what you ran away from?_

He shook his head. This was different. This was on the outskirts of _Chicago_, for heaven's sake. After the age of televison by a long shot. Even if something _had_ happened here, there was no way they'd have been able to keep it contained. The media would've been all over it. There was no way people would've kept silent for this long.

"Let's look around," he said, and started forward.

It really was like being in a war zone, he thought, not knowing what he was looking for. Abandoned. Not something you expected to see, not here, not now.

It put you on edge. This was a place which shouldn't exist. Anything could happen.

"_Agent_ _Gibbs!_"

He whirled around, because Ziva didn't yell for no reason. She had her gun out, and she didn't pull it for no reason, either.

His own gun was in his hands as he ran toward her and turned to see what she was seeing.

"Drop your weapon!" he yelled, at the scruffy-looking punk who had a knife to McGee's neck.

Goddamn it, wouldn't it be _now_ they found people here? None before, and now there was this punk and some bum on the corner who practically blended into the wall. Great. Population boom.

"Not until you tell me where Fabian is!" yelled the punk.

Gibbs shook his head in sheer frustration. "Who the hell is Fabian?! Never mind! I don't care! _Drop your weapon before we shoot your punk ass!_"

"He'll do it," came a voice behind him, infuriatingly calm. It took most of Gibbs' hard-learned Marine discipline not to whip around and aim the gun at him. Though he wasn't sure that would be a bad idea.

"Seriously," said Fornell, stepping forward. "I know him. He will do it. If he doesn't, it's only because Agent David here beat him to it. She won't think twice, I assure you. Let the kid go."

The punk shook his head. "I want to know what you pigs did to Fabian!"

"'Pigs'? Isn't that rather retro for someone as young as you?"

Gibbs stared at the greying ice-queen. "Who the hell is gonna show up next? That kid from the coffee shop?"

"Hang on. Fabian," said Fornell. "Fabian Dewitt?"

"Fabian _Bates_," spat the punk. I want to know what you did to him!"

"Kid," remonstrated Fornell. "Do we _look_ like the army? We're not. We're just suits."

For whatever reason, this made the kid hesitate. "You still work for the government!" he yelled, and took a step back. "What did you do to him!?"

"We didn't do anything to him," said Fornell. "We want to find him too."

"Of COURSE you want to find him! You probably want to kill him!" the punk scoffed, taking another step back, closer and closer to the end of the street.

"Can't I just shoot him?" Ziva asked plaintively.

"Yes," said Gibbs.

"No," snapped Fornell. "Listen! We aren't here to hurt anyone!"

"Then why do they keep threatening to shoot me?!" demanded the punk, taking another step back.

A faint growl was their only warning before the passed-out bum on the corner suddenly burst into life, launching himself at the punk like a cat at a ball of string, literally _pouncing_ on him and wrestling him to the ground.

McGee disentangled himself from the pile as quickly as he could, stumbling to a safe distance.

"_Drop it, hairball!_" yelled the bum, whacking the punk's wrist against the pavement.

"My god," said Fornell, sounding delighted. "Mick Belker, is that you?"

The bum got to his feet, dragging the punk with him, holding his hands behind his back. "Hey, Lieutenant!" he called amiably, fishing in one of his pockets and coming up with a set of handcuffs. "_Stop squirming, dogbreath, or my elbow will hit somethin' important!_"

Ziva turned to Gibbs, her face full of disbelief. McGee did likewise.

For one of the very few times in his life, Gibbs was totally at a loss.

"...'Lieutenant'?" he finally managed.

Fornell turned to him. "I explained it once, remember? Lt. Henry Goldbloom. Used to be a hostage negotiator here before... well..." He gestured at the ruins all around.

Dear god, he _had _explained it once. "You son of a bitch."

"It's hardly _my_ fault you didn't believe me, is it? At least I told you. And that over there was Detective Mick Belker. Best undercover cop in-- probably the nation."

Belker walked forward, shoving the handcuffed punk in front of him all the way, to extend a grubby hand to Gibbs. "Nice to finally meet you."

Gibbs stared at him. "'Finally'?"

"Oh yeah, Abs talks about you all the time. She's the one who told me you were comin'. Thought you might need a little help."

"_Abby_?" Gibbs managed, looking rather strangled. "How the hell do you know Abby?"

Belker levelled an annoyed look at him. "She's my _daughter_."

"My god," said Fornell, even _more _delighted, the bastard. "I _thought_ she reminded me of you!"

"Yeah, that's my girl all right. Thank god she got her mother's brains." A fond grin came over his face. "I got pictures."

"I..." Gibbs floundered for words. "_What the hell is going on here?!_"

Fornell shrugged, stuffed a hand in his pocket, and gestured grandly with the other. "Welcome to Hill Street," he said, his voice an odd mixture of pain, resignation, and affection.

"Hill Street Precinct," said Joyce, probably because she was in the best position to see the murderous expression on Gibbs' face. "Or what's left of it. We used to live here."

"What the hell happened to this place?" Gibbs demanded.

"Fire, machine-gun, flamethrower..." said Ziva, looking around. "Explosives, surely... Fire-hoses..."

"What she said," Joyce said with a shrug.

"Which doesn't explain why my agent has been kidnapped." 

Joyce rolled her eyes. "Oh for the love of god. Did you ever see anything about this on the _news_? Can you imagine such a ruin being permitted to exist just outside the city? Wouldn't you think that such a large-scale disaster in a major city would have been publicized in some fashion?"

"You're saying this was a cover-up?"

"Give the man a medal," said Joyce, throwing up her hands and turning away.

"Joyce," Fornell reproved.

"Why kidnap my agent?" Gibbs demanded again.

"Because he was here."

Gibbs turned to the scruffy bum. "How was he here?"

"He was a kid then. He was there when they did this," Belker explained patiently.

"Wait a second, I know the DiNozzos never could've lived in this part of town," McGee said. "Could they?"

"Di-who?" Belker furrowed his brow. "Never heard of 'em."

"My god," Ziva said, "he was put with those people when his parents died, yes? That's what happened."

Fornell glanced at her with some surprise. "Yes."

"I _knew_ it!" she muttered under her breath, triumphantly.

"DiNozzo was adopted?" Gibbs asked, thinking that this situation was getting more preposterous every minute.

"It all makes sense," Ziva said. "And this is why he got on that plane."

"Someone asked for his help," Fornell said. "He gave it."

Gibbs shook his head. "Then where the hell is he?"

"I suggest we ask Mr. Hairball," said Fornell, gesturing at Belker's punk.

"Ain't no way I'm rattin' out our group to a bunch of Feds," the punk said defiantly.

"Your _group_ kidnapped my agent," Gibbs snarled, having lost all sembelance of patience with this. "You _will_ lead me to him, before I shoot you, find them anyway, and shoot them too!"

"Like you don't know where they are!"

"We DON'T know where they are!" Gibbs yelled.

"If you didn't get 'em, who the hell did?" The punk now looked confused. At least it wasn't just him now.

"I don't know, but I'm gonna shoot them too, all right? _Take. Me. To. Your. Group._"

"They're with DiNozzo," said Fornell.

"Who the hell is DiNozzo?"

"Don't you start pretending you don't _know_ the man you kidnapped," Gibbs growled.

"Oh, is _that_ his name now? You know him?"

"Yes!" Ziva cried. "Haven't you been listening?!"

"We work with him," added McGee. "We came here to look for him."

"And not to blow us up?"

"No, but that's starting to look like a good thing to do on the way out," said Gibbs.

"Oh. Okay then." The punk started walking.

"'Okay, then,'" Gibbs repeated, casting his gaze up to heaven. "All of a sudden it's 'Okay, then'."

"Hill Street for ya," said Fornell, sounding marginally sympathetic. "It's always been like this. Well, except for the ruins. Ask Belker about that time he dressed up as the rabbi."

"Which one?" Belker asked, good-naturedly. "Or that time Renko's dad got stolen?"

"The time Howard hit his head and started holding people hostage in the basement 'cause he thought he was on a Russian submarine?"

McGee and Ziva exchanged glances. "Okay, I have to ask, out of professional curiosity," said McGee. "He thought he was on a Russian submarine?"

"Well, there were pipes down there, and..." Fornell spun a finger beside his head. "Militaristic lunatic."

"How many people was it he got?" asked Belker. "Three? I know the guy who went down to fix the furnace..."

"My god," said Gibbs, "you're all insane."

"Oh, put a sock in it," said Joyce, wearily.

"How far is this going to be?" asked McGee.

"Just up the hill here." The punk gestured as best he could, given the restraints.

Fornell squinted, and smiled. "The _precinct-house_?"

"What's left of it," muttered the punk. As they drew closer, Gibbs could see what he meant; the brick building was in better shape than the rest of the slums they'd seen so far, but not by much.

"Ironically, they'd just finished remodeling it after that fire," commented Joyce.

"I still don't know why _you're_ here," said Gibbs.

"Well, I'm sorry you're so bad at listening, because I have no intent of repeating myself until we stop for a rest."

Damn ice-queen lawyer. Almost made him miss his ex-wives. Well, two of them, at least. The lady was a bit of a bitch, but thus far she hadn't beaten him up, stabbed him in the back, or stolen his things. Though it wouldn't surprise him.

"Careful," said the punk. "There's a lot of broken glass around here still. Why the hell they put so much _glass_ in this place I got no clue."

"I used to ask about that," Joyce said thoughtfully. "They never would give me a straight answer."

"Maybe because you always phrased it along the lines of 'and why the hell did you put so much glass in here, anyway? Did you want us all to get killed?'" Fornell suggested mildly.

Gibbs expected an explosion, or at least a glare; what he got was a faint wry smile. "That might have had something to do with it."

"Joe?" came an unfamiliar voice, as someone stepped out from behind an overturned desk in front of them, brandishing a gun with the same cool, irritated irony that was in his voice. "Who are your new government friends, and why have you brought them to our doorstep? Ten words or less, please."

Joe the Punk did some quick mental calculating. "They know the guy. They didn't take him." He paused. "And, _gun_." He gestured.

"Nice work." The guy gave them a thorough visual examination. He had black hair, too long to be at all respectable, but his gray eyes were far sharper than Gibbs would like. "Who are you people?"

"Besides federal agents?" Gibbs asked.

"Yeah, that part was kind of obvious."

Gibbs let out a breath and stared at the ceiling. "NCIS Special Agent Gibbs. This is Agent David, Agent McGee, some dumbass from the FBI I'm not going to talk about, some bitchy government attorney, and some guy who just showed up dressed as a bum. I'm an ex-Marine. I am having a _really_ bad day. Where the hell is Anthony DiNozzo?"

"That's what I sent Joe to find out," said the other man. "Which I'll admit was a lapse in judgment, but I'm really shorthanded since the guys I asked to escort him here called me from the airport to say everything was fine and proceeded to drop off the face of the earth. So we're looking for the same thing. Why can't we be friends?"

"'Escort'?" Gibbs asked, voice dangerously sweet.

"The only thing we forced him into was the conversation. We didn't make him come here. Hell, we didn't even buy him a plane ticket. We are really, really poor. Freedom fighting does _not_ pay well in the Hill. Which means: if you don't have him, and I don't have him, then someone else took him. And I'm pretty sure it's the people who burned this place down. So I _mean_ it." He lowered his weapon. "Why can't we be friends?"

Gibbs stared at the ceiling again. "Damn it to hell," he sighed, lowering his own weapon, knowing his agents would follow suit. "Name."

"Ethan Ramirez." He put out a hand.

Gibbs didn't take it. "Hill Street Project. Explain. Now."

"Systematic destruction of a high-crime district by the government," Ethan answered.

"Oh good god," muttered Gibbs.

"You said it like you wanted the short version," Ethan defended, wide-eyed, holding up his hands.

"Okay, look, I think if we work together we can make this marginally less painful for everyone concerned," said Fornell, holding his hands up as well.

"Yes!" cried Ziva. "Less painful. Fantastic idea. Don't you think, McGee?"

"Isn't it, you know, a bit late?"

Gibbs drew deeply on the somewhat unreliable reserves of patience that all the other crap he'd been through in his life had instilled in him. "Make this good," he suggested.

"Okay, Hill Street Precinct had the worst crime rates in the city," Fornell began.

"And most years, the nation," Joyce added under her breath.

"And yes, it was a place where some... seriously crazy shit happened." The word still didn't sound quite right coming out of his mouth. "Because the city was half-owned by gangs and warlords. Because nearly every race hated nearly every other race and they were all thrown together in these slums every day, with no one to hate but each other. The most run-down part of the city. The most crime-infested, rat-infested, go down the list. The part of town you want to pretend isn't there. That you huddle up inward toward yourself when you're passing though, trying not to look at anybody so they won't hate you. Where you could get shot just for walking down the street. The part of town everyone wants to disappear: the part of town that sometimes does. Are you with me so far?"

Gibbs nodded. This was wasting his time, but at least it was making sense, which was an improvement.

"You have to understand: working in this place was like drowning, like constantly fighting to keep your head above water," said Joyce, rather surprising Gibbs. "Even if you could go home to your marginally-better side of town. you could see it in their eyes, here. It _was_ a war. It _was_ a foxhole. Everyone was against us and the walls could be breached at any moment. The rabble outside who wanted to murder you and take your place. The people above you who wanted you to sit down, shut up, disappear, anything to help their chances of winning an election and getting more power-- or of getting the hell out of here so they never had to deal with this place again. Here's thirty dollars; go control this place. Like the middle of a river in flood, heading toward a waterfall."

"Everyone wants you gone, including half the people you're trying to protect," said Fornell. "And it just stays that way for years and years. Then somebody decides to make another gesture. Some goddamned politician with a plan, like a million others before him, handing you a band-aid and asking you to put it on because he's suddenly been called away. The plan counts. By the time the results come in, no one can remember who came up with the damn bright idea anymore. With Hunter, it was tanks. This guy built a wall."

Joyce laughed faintly. "Didn't he start by saying he'd collect toll revenue?"

"God, I'd forgotten. Yeah. That's how it started. Then, of course, the people who figured out they were building a fence around the worst part of the city protested. Unfortunately, they decided to do it with guns, so of course the fence became a wall."

"Don't remind me." Joyce closed her eyes and (_the shots rang out, people started screaming, but her entire world was him, trying to stay steady in the rushing crowd, screaming out orders that miraculously his men listened to, but it wasn't enough; they'd tipped over the point of no return; if she hadn't known it herself she could see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice, feel it in the angles of his body; and everyone was screaming, and he was gathering his officers around him through sheer force of will, through every second of effort he'd spent on their behalf in the last decade; and dear god she loved this man more than life._

_But that wasn't going to help anything._)

She wouldn't have expected it, but it was Belker who put a hand on her shoulder, so unobtrusively even she almost didn't notice it; and then it made perfect sense.

"And with the wall came guards," said Fornell.

"So it's not that hard to imagine, right?" said Ethan. "You're being walled away from the rest of the city. Hell, from the rest of the world. It's condescending and you can tell it's going to kill you, one way or another; you can tell what they really want is to have you dead. Like what the bomb squad does with explosives: put it in a big concrete thing, throw in some more explosive, and blow it up there so the blast won't kill anyone else. We couldn't have _told_ you what was happening, but we sure as hell _knew_."

"It was the stupidest idea any of those idiots had ever had." Belker joined in, shaking his head. "An' that's sayin' something. And everyone told them! Everyone _screamed_ it at 'em. What the hell do they care? We're just cops." He shrugged.

Gibbs realized that this was beginning to make a sick sort of sense. It was still utterly impossible, of course; but it made a sick sort of sense. And there were the walls. "So that was the Hill Street Project."

"Yeah, so it's pretty obvious that plan isn't going to work-- then and now, of course," said Ethan. "Only suspense now is in the _way_ the shit'll hit the fan, right? C'mon, guess."

Gibbs glared at him.

"Fine," Ethan sighed. "I'm still kind of proud of it. At least it was creative. The gangs formed a temporary truce, took over all the bases, and seceded from the union."

Gibbs just looked at him. "..._Seceded from the union?_"

He nodded. "Of course, that truce was never gonna last more than ten minutes, but somebody decided the news shouldn't get out."

And there it was again. The one reason he couldn't round all these idiots up and drag them to the nearest asylum for lobotomies then and there. (Besides that they didn't do lobotomies anymore. Damn shame.)

_Somebody decided the news shouldn't get out._

"And in came the army," Joyce said wearily.

"I don't think they were the army. Not the Army, army. Different uniforms. Private contractors?" Fornell speculated.

"At this point, nothing would surprise me," Gibbs said, beginning to accept all of this with a sort of fatalistic resignation.

"And then." Ethan swept an arm out, and dropped it. "The city tells the tale."

Like Ziva had said. Of course. "Okay," Gibbs said, nodding. "This part I get. What I _don't_ get is _why the hell I'm here_. Fornell worked here, the lawyer worked here, this Belker person worked here, but who the hell are you, and what the hell does this have to do with Dinozzo?"

"I used to live here," Ethan said, evenly. "I'm one of the people who escaped. And so is-- crap, I can't remember that name. I keep trying, but I just get stuck on noses, and--"

"_Anthony DiNozzo_," Gibbs snarled.

"No," said Ziva. "Remember? It all makes sense. When he got out of here, they had that awful family adopt him, yes? I wonder what they had on them?"

McGee looked at her strangely. "Have you ever even _met_ his family?"

"I intercepted a call or two from his brother, who is an asshole." She shrugged. "Why, have you?"

"That does not surprise me even a little," Ethan sighed. "No wonder I can't remember the name. But I remember the real one."

"You know what? Screw it." Gibbs shook his head. "What route would they have taken?"

"Huh?"

"To here from the airport, you idiot. If they were ambushed, that's where we need to start looking! And stop wasting our damn time." He finally holstered his weapon (with these lunatics, he hadn't wanted to be _completely _unarmed) and turned to the door. "You idiots _are_ coming, right?"

He didn't have to look behind him to know that everyone was, quickly or slowly, falling into line. He couldn't help but smile a little at that.

In this lunatic wreck of a city, at least _something_ was under his control.

(-)


	4. it's got a legacy

The Hill Street Blues

Rating: PG-13/T

Disclaimer: I hold no rights whatsoever to the characters or premises of NCIS. Or those of Hill Street Blues, though somehow I doubt anyone cares. (sigh) It'd almost be a relief to know that someone in the production companies still gave a damn about the show, except for, you know, the part where I'd be getting my ass sued off...

Summary: (Part 3) Tony's ties to the Hill are revealed. "I don't have any project. I have no idea what you're talking about and I am getting really tired of these pathetic ransom calls."

Notes: I'm, uh, pretty mean to McGee's book here. Because _really_. He deserved _way_ more crap for that than he got. (And at least it gives him screen time.) Ethan was so much fun here...

Oh, and by the way, thank you to everyone who's enjoying this story so far. (There are reviews! Yay!) I hope things are beginning to clear up-- if something isn't, please let me know. (I've done my best to try to make this accessible, but it's a tall order, and I don't know how well it'll turn out.) I'm still a little nervous over the fact that the plot's, uh, kind of incredibly improbable, but there really wasn't any other way to do it, and-- I had to do it. So, I just hope it won't disappoint anyone. Thank you all.

(Of course, if it were going to do that, it would've started last chapter, so this note probably should've gone there, but, well, too late now.)

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3: it's got a legacy

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The voice in his ear sounded vaguely familiar, though he couldn't have told you why; it was all obscured through haze and smoke and pain and so many many years and--

"Fabian," came the voice again, roughened by time and circumstance. Where it would once have been gentle, now it arched and cracked not-quite-comfortably on the ears. He knew this voice. Where from?

He opened his eyes, to a way-too-bright blur that told him exactly nothing. "Ow," he said, bringing up a hand to shield his eyes.

"Hang on, Fabian. They ambushed you. Do you remember?"

Not really. Black uniforms and smoke and something sick in the air, something still going through his veins and blurring his vision, fogging his mind-- what was it he'd seen-- it was important--

"They took him," he said. "They took--"

He scrabbled for a name; the difficulty was, he knew two, and something felt wrong about both of--

(_"I--" he said, looking out the window at the filthy streets-- "I don't think I can... It feels weird, you know? I've had this name for-- for years, now-- and to everyone I know these days, I'm Tony. I've gotten used to being Tony. I don't know how much I ever got used to being DiNozzo, but-- I don't know if I'm up to being this other person. I know it ought to be just a name, but-- this name holds weight, you know? It's why you all dragged your asses to Washington to find me in the first place. It's got a legacy, and-- I don't know if I'm-- up to it, right now. I don't know if I ever can be."_)

Well, if he hadn't had the sense to be worried about the name, then the guy really _wouldn't_ deserve it.

"Shit," said Ethan, because there was only one 'him' he could possibly mean.

"Where?" asked Gibbs.

Fabian shook his head, though it made him dizzy. How the hell should he know that? He'd been drugged and hit over the head and left here for whatever, and he had said like five whole words, so he thought he was doing pretty damn good right now, bitchy old white guys be damned.

"How the hell should he know, Jethro?" the first voice said, irritably.

"_Jethro_?" Ethan said, sounding positively delighted.

"He was drugged and hit over the head. You seriously think these people let him see the license plate?" the voice continued. Fabian still couldn't place it, but whoever it was, he was clearly awesome. Less bitchy old white guy. He could deal with that for now.

The bitchy guy, Jethro, sighed, clearly frustrated. Well, he wasn't the only one, so he could just shut the hell up and get over it.

"Were there others with you?" asked a woman, with an exotic accent that made him decide to work a little harder on getting his vision to clear.

"Two..." he managed, as whoever the awesome guy was helped him to sit up. Decades ago. In the Hill.

"Well, I can't find them," she said. "They took them too. Why did they leave you?"

"Maybe they didn't see him?" Another voice. Exactly how the hell many people were here?

"I couldn't see him," Joe said helpfully.

"If I were you, I wouldn't keep reminding me that I haven't shot you yet," said the bitchy old white guy.

"Seriously, that is very good advice," said the woman. Who had dark hair. At least he hoped that's what he was seeing. Nah, he was pretty sure.

"_Jethro_," said Ethan, sounding profoundly satisfied.

"That goes for you too," Jethro snapped.

"Would you stop threatening to shoot people for a couple seconds? At least until I have time to get my head around how damn old I've gotten?"

"Where do I know you from?" he finally got around to asking.

"Oh, I'm Henry Goldbloom, I used to work at the Hill, maybe you don't--"

"Oh, yeah, Lieutenant!" Of course. She always used to talk about him; she always wondered where he'd gone. "Yeah, I remember."

"It's great to see you. How's Lucy doing?" Goldboom asked, pulling him up to his feet.

He was still a little dizzy, but he was still leaning against Goldbloom, so it went away after a couple seconds and he didn't fall over. "She-- uh--" He was too tired to figure out a polite way to say it, so what the hell. "She died. A couple years ago. Otherwise I probably wouldn't be here. I dunno if she'd let me."

"Oh, god. What the hell happened?"

"Not-- just cancer, not-- she just kept on working, you know? She said she'd put in way too much effort to just stop now, all through the days of the old boys' club, she wasn't going to give the old bastards who were still left the satisfaction-- we still needed the money, anyway-- but she really just loved the job, you know? She just-- needed to do things. What the hell kind of gas was that?"

"Do you remember _anything_ that might be even a little bit useful?"

"They looked-- old." Not just the faces, but almost even the uniforms. "Like maybe they were the exact same people."

"The exact same people as _who_?" Jethro demanded.

"The people who burned this place down the last time, haven't you been listening?" came a new voice, as impatient as the old white guy. Also old. Also familiar.

"Look, lady, some of us did _not_ live here, all right? This is not as easy as it looks. So we're looking for a bunch of retired mercenaries." He ran a hand through his hair. Now that Fabian's vision was clearing, he thought the face went pretty well with the voice-- at least the expression did. What that guy looked like in college, god only knew. "Retired mercenaries hired by the US government to burn down a walled-in high-crime district that had seceded from the union. _McGee _could write something more plausible than this shit!"

"Hey!"

"That kid's a writer?" Ethan said, doubtfully. "Of what, Tom Clancy fanfiction?"

"That is _really_ unfair, my book is--"

"McGee! Talk to us about your book later." The woman with the accent again, excellent. "Mister 'Why on earth would you think Tibbs is Gibbs? The first letter is entirely different!'"

"Would you people get over that already?!"

"My god, it all makes sense now. I should never have doubted you." Ethan, very dryly, who had, if Fabian recalled correctly (which was in question at the moment), referred to some recent bestseller as "second-rate Tom Clancy fanfiction" only a few weeks ago, in connection with the crappy selection at the closest branch library.

"To the _case_," said the familiar-sounding woman. "Why would these mercenaries return?"

"Because if the truth came out, they could be traced," Ethan answered. "And we were trying to get the truth out."

"Why kidnap DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked. "Why the hell would he be so important to them? Except that he's more credible than you lunatics."

"And he'd agreed to talk, hadn't he?" said the woman with the accent. Now there was a face that matched the voice.

"He agreed to talk with us," Fabian corrected. "I don't know if he'd decided anything else yet."

"He would have," said the woman with the accent.

"It could wreck his career," Goldbloom pointed out. "It wouldn't be an easy decision."

"But he would have," said the older woman. "Like we should have. He would've done it; he still will."

"And how the hell would you know?" asked Gibbs, still full of hate, but Fabian wasn't paying attention, because dear god, that woman was _Joyce Davenport_. Of all the people in the universe he'd have thought would never step foot in this place again.

And she probably wouldn't have, he realized, not for any other reason in the world. All these kidnappers had done was bring everyone they feared to one place, and sharpened their resolve.

"So they kidnapped him to try to hush it up?" said Gibbs. "Why can they blackmail you people with him?"

He'd finally asked the right question; but then his cellphone rang. "Damn it!" he muttered, and pulled it out.

DiNozzo, said the caller ID.

He stared at it a moment, then flipped it open. "Gibbs," he answered.

"Shut down your project or the boy dies," came another goddamn cheap-spy-movie-filtered voice.

"I don't _have_ any project. I have no idea what the hell you're talking about and I am getting _really_ tired of these pathetic ransom calls."

"Do not try to fool us, Mister Gibbs. Your number is on the boy's phone."

"_Special Agent_ Gibbs. Of course my number's on his phone. I'm his boss. He works for me at NCIS. And stop calling him 'the boy'." He refrained from adding that it made him sound even more like the starving man's Darth Vader.

"Oh, as if that's a real agency. Nice try, 'Agent Gibbs'. No more creativity. When we have the pictures and you are out of the city we will let him go. We will watch you all. And if you tell anyone about the Hill Street Project, the Furillo boy will die."

"That is the dumbest plan I have ever heard in my life. What the hell are you people, Army rejects? Did they tell you about the IQ requirement when they turned you away, or did they lie and say you had heart murmurs?"

"Don't try to make me angry, Mr. Gibbs. This is no game. Return the pictures, and we will return the Furillo boy."

"_Special Agent_ Gibbs. And I still have no idea what the hell you're talking about."

"You have one hour." The man hung up the phone.

Gibbs stared at his phone for a moment, because every time he thought this day had reached its peak of ridiculousness, some other idiot of monumental proportions walked into his life. "Someone remind me," he said, "what's the politically correct word for 'retard'?"

"Developmentally challenged...?" McGee suggested timidly.

Gibbs dialed Abby's number, a plan already in mind. "And what the hell were they talking about 'pictures'?"

"We have pictures of the riots," Ethan answered quietly. "Outside substantiation. That's what they want?"

"Apparently. Who can tell?"

"Gibbs!" Abby picked up the phone-- or, more probably, put it on speaker, because he could hear some weird Japanese music in the background again. "Why are you calling? I don't have anything for you yet!"

"I think you're about to. See if you can trace DiNozzo's cell with that GPS chip thing."

"You really think it's on?"

"Someone really, really stupid just used it to call me, so-- yeah. I think it's worth a shot."

"I'm on it. Only take a second." There was a quick clattering of keys and the sound of Abby humming to the music. "It _is _on! This person is an idiot! Just a sec. I'll send it to McGee."

"Abby's sending you the address," Gibbs told McGee.

"By the way, did my dad ever show up? He kept saying he'd try, but I was hoping that forgery thing would keep him busy. It's a dangerous place, the Hill."

Gibbs paused. "You _knew_ about this?"

"It took me a little while to put it together! Dad never liked talking about it much. I mean, you can see how it could be a little depressing."

"You _knew_ that--" Belker was starting to growl at him. "So you didn't technically send him?"

"I told him what was happening and he decided he had to come. It's what he does. It's what I'd do, if I could be there. Besides... you'll protect each other and everything. And I've told him so much about you! You'll probably make friends _really_ quick. You have a lot in common."

"Got it," said McGee.

"Okay, then." Gibbs hung up. "Let's get this thing over with as fast as humanly possible."

"What are we doing again?" asked Fabian.

"They want the pictures. We take them the pictures. By the way, what the hell does 'Furillo' mean?"

"It's a name, you idiot," Joyce snapped.

"So that's why they kept calling him the 'Furillo boy'? Huh. Think he traded up on that one." Gibbs started toward the car.

Fornell turned to Ethan. "_Leroy_ Jethro," he said, very deliberately.

A grin lit up Ethan's face. "It's like Christmas," he said, voice full of wonder.

"You idiots! Make yourselves useful and keep behind us."

"Hey, Belker, thanks for fixin' that car for us," Belker muttered to himself. "It was real nice of ya. Where'd you learn to fix half-destroyed cars like that, anyway? Ah, here and there. It's nothin'. I don't care if it's nothin', Belker, havin' a car here in the city is gonna save us a lot of time and probably our asses too. I appreciate your help."

"Would you stop that?" said Gibbs.

"What the hell does she see in you?" Belker shook his head, a faint growl just barely audible. "Shoulda stayed the hell in Mexico."

Gibbs ignored him, busy trying to figure out how they could all pile into the car, and, more importantly, what they should do when they arrived.

"You don't even want to see the pictures, Leroy?" Ethan asked innocently.

"That was going to be my next question." He held out a hand for them.

Ethan sighed and rolled his eyes. "You don't have to get all _huffy_ about it, Leroy. You're lucky I carry them with me, you know. And that I'm willing to forgive your terrible manners." He pressed a creased manilla envelope into Gibbs' hand.

Gibbs opened it as Ziva maneuvered herself to look over his shoulder. Black-and white; who knew why? Maybe it'd been some art student, in the wrong place at the wrong time-- living in the "wrong" place at the wrong time-- probably there'd never be any way to find out.

"The negatives are somewhere else," Ethan said, very quietly. "Since all the other pictures on the reel are of trees and families, we thought it'd be a really effective message."

The first picture, unsurprisingly, looked like a war zone. A corner grocery store was burning in the foreground; shadowy figures were visible down the street, running. Some had guns. Some were firing at each other, Some were running away.

The second picture had a clearer focus; there was a woman in the foreground, with wild curly hair and smudges on her cheeks. Clearly a LEO; there was panic in her eyes and steel in her spine and no grace in her pose whatsoever. She was yelling at someone-- unsurprising, in a time when probably everyone had been yelling something. Or else hiding. It looked like there were children running behind her.

"Lucy Bates," Fornell said softly. "That's the woman who adopted Fabian. Hell of an officer."

The third and fourth were similar to the first; blurred, from running if the photographer had any sense, with scenes of devastation clear enough in the background. Gibbs wasn't sure, but he thought there was a man being shot execution-style in the fourth. He didn't see any reason to look closely enough to tell for sure.

In the fifth photograph, which was perfectly, disturbingly clear, three mercenaries were pointing machine guns at a man in a dirty trenchcoat and three-piece suit. There were four or five children in between the man and the wall of the slum behind him-- cowering would be the word-- the man's arms were outstretched and his head was high, clear-eyed, defiant.

"The one right there," said Ethan, very softly, pointing at one of the children, "is me. Not my best side, even then. The man in the trenchcoat is Captain Frances Furillo. This is the part where he's standing between me and my friends and three ruthless men with guns. This is the part right after he yells that it's madness, inhuman, to murder children. This is the part right before they open fire and he dies and we have time to run away.

"This is the part that explains why they can blackmail me with the life of his son."

Gibbs stared at the photograph, because suddenly it was real. Before, it was a bunch of lunatics in a wreck of a city telling him impossible things, and the sheer _ridiculousness_ of it all had cushioned him from considering it seriously.

But it had happened. A slum had been walled up, and the people in it murdered. While the hideously undertrained and undersourced LEOs had tried to hold it all together with rusty paper clips. Fornell had been there. So had this Davenport woman. So had Tony-- and his _family_; Gibbs didn't know a goddamn thing about Tony's family, not even his fake one, and maybe there was something seriously wrong with that. He hadn't known that Abby's father-- shit, he hadn't known Abby _had_ a father; when he'd thought about it at all (which he hadn't, not ever), he'd just assumed he was dead and she had a daddy complex like everyone else had. He hadn't known Fornell had been a hostage negotiator in a slum in the middle of the country somewhere, and Fornell had _told_ him.

Had told him everything, come to think of it.

_"You may not know the first thing about him. Have you ever even asked? Or do you think you're the only one with secrets?"_

Turnabout might be fair play, but god, was it a bitch.

(-)


	5. blood doesn't wash out that way

The Hill Street Blues

Rating: PG-13/T

Disclaimer: I hold no rights whatsoever to the characters or premises of NCIS. Or those of Hill Street Blues, though somehow I doubt anyone cares. (sigh) It'd almost be a relief to know that someone in the production companies still gave a damn about the show, except for, you know, the part where I'd be getting my ass sued off...

Summary: (Part 4) The shootout begins. "Do I wish I had more options? Of course I do! But it's not like I can call for backup! I've been _listening_. There's a _government conspiracy_. That limits the number of people I can trust to, essentially, _us_. So I have to do what I can with what I have."

Notes: Action's not generally my strong suit, and probably isn't here either... but I had incentive to try my best. Que sera.

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4: blood doesn't wash out that way

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Gibbs had a sense for cases. Usually, at least; he _had _missed the part about two members of his team being directly involved in a massive government cover-up; but he felt he was on firmer ground here.

This was the part of the case where nearly all the data was in, and everything hinged on the one last encounter-- hinged on him, and the suspect, and on occasion several guns. There might be something left to be revealed; he could feel that there was still something that didn't entirely add up, but he wasn't sure if it would be the last piece of the puzzle or something that turned the whole case upside down.

He trusted Fornell on this one: nothing was predictable in the Hill.

Which left him with himself, McGee, David, Fornell, Ramirez, Joe the Punk, Fabian the Drugged, Joyce the Attorney, and Belker the... whatever the hell that man was. Against god knew how many retired mercenaries. Who were, at least, complete _idiots_. Which would _hopefully_ be a point in their favor, but would make the idiots unpredictable, and, like he said, the Hill.

Then again, Belker was unpredictable, too, and he moved in this place like he belonged here. There was something uncanny about it; you'd turn around looking for him and you eyes would pass right over him, because he seemed as natural to the landscape as the dented, rusting trash cans and the dirty paper the wind blew down the streets. Maybe he did that everywhere; maybe he did it best here. A lifesaving trait for an undercover officer to have, come to think of it.

If he had to walk into an unknown situation facing an indeterminate number of desperate men with military training, he could have a worse group of people at his back.

"Do we have a plan?" asked McGee, plaintively; which Gibbs could understand at this point.

"We go in. I give them these pictures. I explain the situation. We get DiNozzo out of there."

"..._How_?"

"That part I think we're gonna have to figure out as we go along. Due to the lack of intel." He parked the car outside the building; a warehouse, mostly intact; really hard to recon on such short notice. "Ziva, McGee, check it out."

They jumped out of the car and started brief, whispered negotiations on who went which way.

"As for the rest of you-- who the hell are you calling?"

"Minions," Ethan said cheerfully, a surprisingly large and uh-hip cellphone to his ear. "Or do you not want any more backup? 'Cause I figured, against god knows how many ex-mercenaries, less isn't really more."

"Point," Gibbs acknowledged, and turned to his own cellphone. Unless these people were much dumber or much smarter than they seemed (and either option would be trouble), he ought to be getting another call any minute. "How many minions?"

"About a dozen?"

"Okay, then." His phone rang; DiNozzo. "Gibbs," he answered.

"Do you have the photographs?"

It was really amazing that the fool hadn't bothered to ask for the negatives. Hopefully he thought that was implied. "Yes, I do, as it happens."

"Good. This is what you will do." Gibbs listened patiently as the voice rattled off directions to the warehouse they were already at.

"Is that clear?"

"Yes. By the way, how exactly do I know my agent is alive?"

"Excuse me?"

"How do I know you aren't trying to screw me over," Gibbs repeated patiently. "Here, let me answer that one for you. You're supposed to put him on the phone when someone says that."

"Why should I put him on the phone?"

"So I know you're not trying to screw me over and don't call the police."

There was an exasperated sigh. "Fine."

"DiNozzo?"

"Yeah, uh, a funny thing happened on the way to work this morning..."

Gibbs broke into a grin. "Do you think you should maybe remind those idiots to take the voice synthezizer off the phone?"

"They didn't take the _voice synthezizer_ off? What kind of--"

It was probably fortunate for all concerned that the mercenary grabbed the phone back at that point. After a few seconds of scuffling, Tony's voice came through again, clear this time: "I can't believe these people managed to kidnap me."

"Yeah, well, it's been a weird day for all of us. Do you have any idea why they refuse to believe we're federal agents?"

"Besides that they're idiots? No..." There was a sharp sound, and Tony let out a hiss of pain. "Yeah, apparently they can't handle the truth."

At that point there was a lot more scuffling, followed by a voice (undoubtably the mercenary, forgetting the disguise) yelling, "You have twenty minutes, Mister Gibbs!"

"Special Agent!" Gibbs retorted at the line went dead. Even in the midst of such farcical idiocy, it was still a chilling sound.

They might be idiots, but they were idiots with _guns_.

"Twenty minutes," he said, and closed the phone with a snap. "Can your people show up by then?"

"Yeah. Most of them live here."

"Good. Fornell. Any bright ideas? Now's the time."

He shook his head. "Not until David and McGee get back and we know a little more about the situation."

"Dear lord, we're all going to die," sighed Joyce.

"Let's try a little positive thinking, ma'am," said Belker. "Just in case."

Ziva knocked on the window. "There is a back room, but it is small. There are at least seven of them in there. They are definitely retired, as we thought; they are too old to be anything else. They probably have Tony in the room. There are-- pillars-- in the main room, that could serve as cover for either side."

"They apparently have _some_ military training-- so we'll want him in sight before we try anything. We'd be surrounded in there-- we'll have to keep some people back." Gibbs thought some more, silent. "Okay. Here's the plan..."

"That's a really, really bad plan," said Joyce.

"And exactly what would _you_ know about rescuing hostages, ma'am?" Gibbs snapped. "Unless you were part of a SWAT team when you lived here..."

"You're putting him at risk! There's got to be a better way! You'll all be sitting ducks and you'll be _shot_ and I don't really want to _see_ that much more blood in my lifetime."

"Ma'am, I know what I'm doing. Do I wish I had more options? Of course I do! But it's not like I can call for backup! I've been _listening_. There's a _government conspiracy_. That limits the number of people I can trust to, essentially, _us_. So I have to do what I can with what I have."

"I want to come in with you," she said, firmly.

"If it will shut you up? Sure. What the hell." He checked his watch. "Let's get in there. Ramirez, Davenport, Fornell..."

McGee looked faintly hurt at being excluded, but he was sure Ziva would explain it to him. He wanted the people he trusted at his back. He wanted the people he didn't where he could see them.

He considered knocking at the fragile excuse of a door, but kicked it in instead, letting every bit of his impatience show in his stride as he stomped into the warehouse. "Where is he?"

"Well. You aren't much for pleasantries." The man with a gun to Tony's (blindfolded-- why?) head raised an eyebrow. Not the man from the phone. The man from the phone hadn't had the brains or the charisma to pull this off.

"I don't appreciate my men being kidnapped. I also have a few ideological objections to armed mercenaries putting an entire district to the sword. So you haven't exactly caught me at my best."

"Your men?" The man raised his eyebrows. "I didn't know people kept harems in this day and age."

Gibbs raised his eyes to the ceiling as Tony, and the rest of his companions, made rather loud choking noises. "No human beings can be this stupid. It just isn't possible."

"Look, Mister-- what was your name?"

"Special. Agent. Gibbs."

"Right. Let's make this as painless as possible, all right? The negatives."

"Your minion didn't say anything about negatives," Gibbs pointed out. "All he said was 'pictures'. If I hadn't run into the leader of the-- what, rebel alliance? What _do_ you people call yourselves? But I wouldn't have had any idea what the hell you were talking about at all."

The leader frowned, slowly. "You aren't the leader?"

"No, _he _is." Ethan raised his hand helpfully. "Why the hell would he have the leader's number on his phone when they only met this morning? No. I'm his boss. At NCIS. Naval Criminal Investigative Service. Google it. It's real. I suggest you give him back _right now_, because I've been wanting an excuse to shoot someone all day."

And finally, _finally_, the man figured it out.

"It's coming out," said Fornell. "And there is nothing you can do to stop it. So I suggest--"

But there wasn't any time for that, because the shooting had begun.

It came from outside-- but Gibbs had already drawn his weapon, and seized the perfect opportunity to take the leader out. Ethan, unarmed, was throwing himself behind Gibbs, as if they weren't surrounded-- Fornell was getting his weapon out, ducking for one of the pillars, taking out one of the men at the sides--

--Joyce was tackling Tony to the ground, so the shot intended for his heart hit hers instead--

--Gibbs ducked for the other pillar, aiming at the men behind them--

--Ziva and McGee were coming in through the back, followed by a number of strangers, and Belker launching himself at the nearest mercenary like a starved, furious dog--

"_Enough_!" Tony screamed, and where the hell had he gotten that voice? It echoed through the entire warehouse, and everyone-- _everyone­-- _just for a split-second-- paused.

"You said you didn't want this getting out," he said. "You said you didn't want your children, your grandchildren, to know what you had done. Well, it's too late for that. Don't you understand? Blood doesn't wash out like that. Not by adding more blood. The secret is _over_. What you've done is going to get out, and you can't stop it, and you can't change it. What you _can_ change-- the _only _thing you can change-- is what you're doing right now. You have a choice. You can stop now, and you'll have the chance to explain what you've done, to make your apologies, to tell your side of the story. Or you can die here like everyone else did, and there's not going to be a damn person who'll want to speak for you. Your families can _think_ you might be monsters-- or they can _know_ it.

"It's entirely up to you."

And there was silence.

Except for the sound of sirens on the other side of the wall. Had Ramirez called the LEOs? Or was it a coincidence?

"Drop the weapons," Gibbs said, quietly. It was like a spell, and he didn't want to break it.

And, miraculously, they did.

Of course, half of them immediately ran for the door, but no one was really in the mood to chase them. Well, except Belker, who was instantly out the door with a manic grin on his face like he hadn't had this much fun in years.

Come to think of it, he _could_ see the resembelance to Abby.

"_Shit_," said Tony, and Gibbs whirled around.

But he wasn't hurt; he had managed to work his blindfold half-off even with handcuffs on, and he was pulling Joyce's head into his lap. "Joyce, hold on. _Hold on._"

She just smiled, as Gibbs knelt down beside his agent and winced at the sight of the wound. He was pretty good with wounds. People didn't survive the ones like that. "'S fine," she whispered, and she looked like she believed it. "'S all fine. I'm sorry... I couldn't let it happen twice."

"Joyce," said Fornell from behind him, voice breaking.

"Wasn't there then. Had to be now." Her eyes slipped closed. "Love..."

As last words went, Gibbs thought, it was a good one.

Tony was sobbing into his sleeve; Ziva put her arms around his shoulders, and McGee patted his head awkwardly. Gibbs stood, and turned around; dead and injured mercenaries littlered the floor, and Ethan Ramirez had a hand clamped over the liberally bleeding wound on his shoulder, and Gibbs wasn't sure he wanted to know what was outside.

He wanted to say something to Tony, but he couldn't, could he? He'd traded away the ability to say anything sincere to him; Tony would always be looking for the hidden barb, the razor-edge of disapproval, because that was almost all Gibbs had ever given him. So he couldn't risk saying a word; couldn't risk hurting him more.

And what was it he'd given that away for?

He rummaged through the leader's pockets, and found the handcuff key on a ring right next to the man's house and car keys. He slipped it out, took Tony's wrist, and unlocked the handcuffs.

Tony stared at him; he did his very best to let himself look sorry.

And maybe it worked, maybe it actually came through, because Tony laughed a little and wiped his eyes on his sleeve one more time. "What the hell are we going to tell the cops...?" he asked, voice hoarse.

"Whatever you want to," said Gibbs. And, because it really was a show of confidence and surely Tony knew enough to take it that way, "The truth."

"...Yeah." He nodded. "Yeah." He looked down at Joyce. "I can't believe she... I haven't seen her in _years_. I can't believe she came back to this place."

"I can," said Gibbs.

Tony just nodded. "Let's get out of here."

Ziva lent him her shoulder, and Gibbs lent Ramirez his, and they walked out into the ruins of the Hill.

(-)


	6. a million stories that'll never be told

The Hill Street Blues

Rating: PG-13/T

Disclaimer: I hold no rights whatsoever to the characters or premises of NCIS. Or those of Hill Street Blues, though somehow I doubt anyone cares. (sigh) It'd almost be a relief to know that someone in the production companies still gave a damn about the show, except for, you know, the part where I'd be getting my ass sued off...

Notes: The scenario Fornell describes is from the very first episode of Hill Street Blues. So, if you're interested, you know where to find it... (wink)

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Epilogue: a million stories that'll never be told

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Fornell was leaning against the brick of the police station, eyes closed, remembering. A dim, grungy locker room that needed a coat of paint and a really good cleaning by a janitorial staff that actually had an appreciable budget.

_"Some days I think I should just quit this job... go out, start a little deli somewhere..."_

_"I'll come with you. I'll learn how to make pizza and have a little oven on the side... I'll grow one of those little mustasches... We'll call it Furbloom's." At his smile, "Goldillo's?"_

_"Frank and Henry's," he answered. And because smiling only made it hurt more, "Some days I think I could do more good out there making pizzas than I can do here."_

_"Yeah. I know the feeling. It's a big, cumbersome, imperfect system... If you leave it, it'll be a little worse."_

Remembering those dark eyes, he thought maybe he could explain it.

Which was a good thing, because Jethro was leaning on the wall beside him, now, and of course the man would want answers-- and yes, he deserved them.

"Why did she do that?" he asked, softly. Jethro had been strangely soft the last few hours; it probably wouldn't last-- but then again, maybe it would. "That's what I still don't understand, about any of it, really-- _why_?"

"The short answer, or the long?"

"_Is_ there a short answer?"

"Not really."

"Then take your time."

He sighed. "One of the... many things I keep remembering... a certain hostage situation. Couple of wannabe gang punks hold up a liquor store, cops run into 'em, they hole up with hostages. Hector." He smiled. "Yeah, Hector interfaced with our department quite a number of times over the years. Couldn't have been more than-- thirteen, fifteen. We had to hack into the phone line from across the street-- I had to dig out _quarters_, it's a hostage situation and I have to pay for the connection-- and they're tying up the phone talking to reporters, trying to sell their life story. Dozen cops outside, twice as many guns, three hostages. Crowd gathered around to watch. They wanted to talk to their gang leader. That, predictably, degenerated quickly into a conversation about who'd done what to whose mother. It was a goddamn mess."

The setup was easy; it was explaining why this part mattered that was going to be the hard part. "So Frank shows up with a bullhorn. And by this time they've got a couple damn choppers out there, not doing a damn thing but making it impossible to hear yourself think-- I'm trying to yell at them to get the hell out of there, but apparently they can't really hear me talk either. He asks the kids for some sign they've noticed him; they throw out a roll of toliet paper; and of course all the idiots standing around there laugh. And the damn choppers aren't going away. And he gives someone else the bullhorn, and he takes off his holster, and he takes a step forward.

"And those damn choppers are just getting lower and lower, and the wind and the noise are just getting _everywhere_, and Hector smashes the window of the front door and points out his rifle, and everyone takes a step back. And Frank takes another step forward.

"And the kid hesitates, and breaks a little more glass, and aims his gun again; and Frank keeps walking toward him. _Keeps walking toward him_, when the choppers are all you can hear and the wind's strong enough to blow you away.

"And the ground is starting to shake, 'cause you know, it's the Hill, and the place isn't exactly up to code; and something smashes in the liquor store, and Howard's _idiot_ EATers in the back decide now's the time to blow in the back door and go in with guns blazing, _despite_ the fact that Frank's told them a million times that they're not to do a damn thing unless he okays it, because they are, after all, Howard's team, and Howard... You ever seen the Colbert Report? Nah, I won't make you answer that. Sufficeth to say he's like Stephen Colbert, with guns. And, on several memorable occasions, tanks. It's a miracle the Hill didn't burn down years ago. He probably _would've_ burned it all down himself if he hadn't kept leaving the keys in the ignition.

"So they _jump_ in the back, guns blazing, and the kids throw themselves out the front door, and Frank goes over there and throws himself on top of 'em."

He looked over at Jethro to see if he really had to elaborate on that. No; that pretty much spoke for itself. Jethro had seen more than enough in his time to understand.

"They tried so hard to save Hector," he said instead, looking away. "It never did work."

"No," said Jethro, very quietly, "it never does."

"He never did get promoted again. Oh, they _tried_ to get him out of that place a couple times... First time, he got out of it by answering a few questions about a councilman nobody wanted asked... specifically, about him and a dead fifteen-year-old hooker... Heh." He grinned. "Everyone started trying to transfer when the news got around. You should've seen Belker, he was inconsolable. What was it Frank said he said? He was transferring to narcotics. Because it was nightshift, and he liked the night. Better pay. Better chance of dying." He chuckled. "Abby did the exact same thing when you ran off, you know."

"Yeah?"

"Second time they tried to run him for Mayor, he only got out of it by getting shot." His face went dark. "Some lunatic saw his name as a potential candidate in the op-eds. On the day he was gonna testify against the _fugitive Mob boss_. That's the kind of shit that _only_ happens in the Hill." He shook his head.

"And Joyce?" asked Jethro.

Fornell sighed. "You know what happened to Frank. His first wife Faye died in the... mess. She was a friend of mine. And you can still see her, in him. She spent several years where she'd walk right into the precinct-house, barge into his office, and start yelling about her alimony checks so loud the whole station could hear. Fiery. A little shallow, yeah, but she was growing out of it. Well, a little. One time, she got put in jail for contempt of court. She was railing about how crazy and unfair the whole thing was, when they called Frank to get her out. He pointed out that judges don't generally throw people in jail for contesting traffic tickets. He _swore _that she said, 'Well, I _might_ have implied he had an unnatural relationship with his mother, but still--!'" He laughed.

"And Joyce?" Jethro asked again, a different note in his voice-- probably because he was already beginning to understand.

"They kept it hidden for _years_." He shook his head. "Years, and I really don't think anybody had a clue. Okay, I thought he might be _interested_ in her, but _everybody_ was interested in her. Classic case. Tall, beautiful, classy... _everyone_ was interested in her. And then one night she walks into the station, goes to his office, and says, 'You want an open relationship? Fine. You've got one.' And kisses him in front of the whole station."

"So, his second wife, then." Jethro nodded, slowly.

"After the Project... I don't know exactly what happened to her. I never got the chance. I never wanted to. She... was unstable for a while there. Or they said she was when they took her away. God only knows if it was true anymore. Probably the only reason she wasn't a judge. She couldn't take care of him. I might've volunteered, but they said they found him a place, and... we were terrified. Of what they might do to us. So we shut up and took it. And we didn't say a word. All these years."

He stared into the distance, toward the ruins of the Hill. "A million stories that'll never be told."

"And some that will." Jethro looked unusually subdued and sincere when Fornell... Henry... turned to him. "It's not too late. You did what you had to, you survived, and now you're here to tell about it."

Henry chuckled weakly. "They're gonna kick my ass for this. Probably stick me in a damn liason position somewhere."

"Oh, that'd just be vindictive."

He looked around the corner. There he was, looking slightly ragged, but you could still see it in him, see it all; his mother's tempernment, his father's nobility, his stepmother's steel, his hometown's ruins. Not just in the firmament, in the details.

He was more than his past. But it lived on in him, too.

Though he'd admit he'd been doubtful at times, the man was a damn fine legacy.

"You coming?" said Jethro. "We have to stand around and look official. Or something. And there's a question-and-answer session." He winced. "Why did there have to be a question-and-answer session? We could just tell it to McGee and have him write it up as his next spy thriller or whatever the hell it is he's writing these days."

"Have some respect for the dead," Henry scolded. "Did you _read_ his book?"

"He's gonna be stealing the plot anyway, you just know it. Why not give him official sanction and kill two birds with one stone?"

"Because I will have to kill him if he steals the plot. Well, from this, anyway. He's going to be stealing the plot from somewhere, that's for sure. Mr. 'This person's name has one letter different from yours and is therefore clearly an entirely different person'." He rolled his eyes. "The kid's sweet, but he's a hack."

"Think you can do better?" A quirked eyebrow.

Henry smiled, slowly-- a little painfully, because it had been a while. "You know what, that's not such a bad idea."

"No, it isn't. If anyone can tell even a fraction of those stories, it'll be you."

"Yeah." He let out a breath. "So."

"Well, Henry?" Jethro smiled, because he had a point about McGee: just changing the name _didn't_ mean a damn thing.

Henry smiled, because life was what you made of the time you spent breathing; and if you couldn't get anything back, sometimes what you found going forward was almost enough to make up for it. "Let's go."

They stepped out into the sea of reporters in the bright, warm Chicago morning.

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End file.
